


We do not negotiate with toddlers

by bluebells



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Bath Time, Din Djarin's pro parenting (he's doing his best), Domesticity, Found Family, Gen, Slice of Life, Weapons lockers are not for bebes, bed time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: Din demarcates his life in phases. Life before the siege on his town. Before he came of age in the Covert. Before the child entered his life and now he has to coax it to evacuate its bowels in a timely manner every night; he hardly recognises his life anymore.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 152





	We do not negotiate with toddlers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Danudane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danudane/gifts).



> I hope this brightens your morning, my friend. Taking a break from Road Trip AU epics for slice of life fluff in these trying times <3

Life for Din Djarin before the child hadn’t seemed idle: his days were ordered and methodical.

Rise from his light doze at the helm of the _Crest_ and check the logs for anything noteworthy while he slept. Wash up. Eat quickly. Get back to the helm and close the distance to his next quarry as soon as possible.

Din did not like sleeping in space if he could help it. Although he spent so much of his life now among the stars, to be a lone Mandalorian without walls or atmosphere to signal the approach of enemies always kept him on edge. He did not enjoy relying on technology alone. Radars could malfunction.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

Though, he did not consider the child as back-up. If anything, the foundling was just one more concern in addition to low fuel, low rations, outstanding repairs and -- oh, the target the Empire painted on their backs.

“That’s not for you.”

The child blinks, startled when Din shuts the armoury doors in his small face, pouting at the wheezing lock. Din hears the lock fail to engage. The doors creak open as though in apology. Scowling, Din shoves it out of spite.

Add a broken lock to his list.

Ah well. That's a problem for future him. He sighs, mentally setting it aside.

“Come here,” Din gestures for the little one to follow and starts up the faucet in the sink.

Ears perking up, the child recognises the motions for bath time and totters at his heels. 

“You need to stay out of the weapons locker,” he explains, shedding his gloves to test the water’s temperature. “I know you’re powerful, but I don’t want to test if your healing powers work on you, too. Or to find a hole blasted in our hull.”

The child trills happily, small claws tugging at his calf.

He knows the child can understand him sometimes. If only it was clear when his intention was lost or the child was willfully ignoring him.

From the corner of his eye, Din catches sight of the vacc tube beside the sink. Huh. He pulls back to consider the small face beaming up at him, wrapped around his leg.

“You used the tube yet?”

The child looks at it with a questioning sound. 

Five minutes later, Din is crouched before the vacc tube, holding the small child above it, that long robe (sack?) bunched high around his chest to avoid any mess. He needs to buy the kid more clothes. It’s not good for one so small to be running around half-naked in space while his sole piece of clothing dries.

Din had felt a little guilty after the first time he washed the kid’s robe and it emerged a few shades lighter. He had been wandering with Din for several days by that point.

He needs to buy the kid some new clothes. In the meantime, he has other tactics for stretching their modest resources.

The kid swings its large feet back and forth and giggles, holding onto his hands.

“C’mon, kid. Do your thing. We don’t have all night.”

His back is starting to ache holding this position. But it’s kind of necessary. Without Din, the little one would fall straight in. Maybe even get stuck in the tube. The mental image of a sad and bewildered child stuck halfway in a toilet makes him snort under his breath. Guilt chases the thought. That would be terrible. Definitely terrible.

The kid burbles with bright laughter, and catches one of its feet, pulling it to its mouth.

“No,” Din tugs that foot free. “Dirty.”

An unhappy squint is his answer. Or is that the kid's judging face?

He looks around at the sound of rushing water, just in time to see the sink overflow.

“Damn it!”

The kid squeals in his hold when he lunges to turn the faucet off. Panting, his heart racing, he glowers at the pool of water now at his feet. Water, even recycled water, is a precious resource out here (it's all recycled on the _Crest_ ). He thought he’d turned that off!

“Aaaaaooo,” the kid wriggles helpfully, patting his wrist as though in reassurance. 

Din sighs heavily and meets the kid’s big, smiling eyes. And then sees the trail the kid has pooped from the tube to Din’s boot and--

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groans, checking his leg for further splatter.

The kid kicks a foot out to the overfull sink. “Ahhhhm.”

“ _Now_ you’re ready.” Din shakes his head in disbelief and gladly deposits that child in the makeshift tub before it sprays any more of its dinner on the deck.

He squirts a dollop of cleaning solution into the water and the child splashes happily up to its waist, ignorant of his guardian's weary determination, stepping back to assess the damage. 

Din didn’t realise how quiet his life used to be until his days were overrun by keeping hunters off their backs, cleaning up the digestive wreckage of his foundling while trying to keep it from accidentally killing itself or driving Din to destroy their home from distraction.

It’s okay. This is just another mission.

Grabbing a cleaning rag from beneath the sink, he shakes his head at the little one’s delighted laughter and kneels down to get to work.

///

An hour later, the kid is clean, dry and wrapped in one of Din's spare undershirts. Already falling asleep, Din swaddles the little one in its sleeping blanket, tight and firm.

He didn’t think he needed so many _things_ until he had to share with a child. And the child couldn’t help but be a child -- spilling, soiling or simply losing their belongings. He tried to give the child shoes once. They had just been overlarge socks with thickened soles, but by the end of that first day when he pulled up the child's robes, the child had blinked back at him and wriggled innocently when he appealed, incredulous, _"Where are your shoes?"_

The child's head nods to the blanket at their chin, heavier with each soft, rasping breath.

Frowning, Din adjusts the wrapping. Is this blanket thick enough? It might be worth the credits to invest in a spare. Is it too tight? Not tight enough? Should Din tuck his ears in?

He tugs it loose around the kid’s shoulders, just in case.

Large, dark eyes open at the motion and the little one pouts at him with a soft, hopeful sound. 

Din scowls at the tug in his chest. He really wishes he could pretend he doesn’t understand. He tries anyway, but the moment he starts easing the kid down to the sleeping rack, it mewls unhappily and starts squirming within the blanket.

No, that’s not good. Go to sleep, kid.

“Shh, shh. Hey,” he hushes, patting the kid’s chest to discourage its attempt to worm its arms free. If the kid gets his hands up to reach for him with those big eyes, it’s all over. “It’s okay. It’s time for sleep.”

“Mmmm.” A whimper, that small pout deepens and dark eyes shine with the threat of tears.

…

Damn it.

Din leans down and raises a finger in warning, other hand braced behind the precious bundle in his arms. “Listen. This time. Okay. But _next time,_ you sleep here. Understand?”

The kid just yawns and tries to catch his finger in his mouth.

Ten minutes later, the little one snores against his cuirass, tucked firmly into his elbow as he adjusts their course. Glancing down, he cleans the small line of drool and gently pokes him in the cheek. The child sleeps on and Din squeezes him gently, unable to help himself.

Sliding off his helmet, he presses lips to the little one's wrinkled forehead. He lingers and his eyes slide shut, breathing him in.

The child smells of soap and steel of the sink, of its warm woollen blanket, and Din is glad more than anything that his senses recognise the baby's own scent as healthy, running warmer as it settles and heals from the day's rhythms.

A twitch of sleep, the baby murmurs sweet and nonsensical. Heart warmed, Din smiles, settling back in his seat.

It’s surprising how much work he can still accomplish with only one hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Season two better give us more Din struggling through everyday parenthood because the logistics would fuel a season's worth of comedy.
> 
> Come talk to me about Din's Danger Toilet on Twitter at [@bellsybuilds](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds). The entire Crest needs to be baby-proofed.
> 
>  **Permissions:** You do not need to ask for permission to make translations, podfics, fanfic or fanart for any of my stories-- I do ask that you link back to my original work and let me know because I would LOVE to share what you've created.


End file.
